


Lavender

by hetalia_smut



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, history was fucked up yall, some minor sex in the beginning but it ain't explicit so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-06-11 02:13:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15305184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hetalia_smut/pseuds/hetalia_smut
Summary: “I need more,” Arthur heard himself saying distantly, as if he was in another room. “I need more, I need to be fixed, let me fix myself, I need more please, Alfred let me find more-”“Hey, hey,” Alfred hushed him, sitting down at the edge of the tub. Arthur felt himself being lowered into the porcelain, whining as his blanket and his Alfred were taken away from him.





	Lavender

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is about the Lavender Scare in the US circa 1950, which was basically a homosexual witch hunt. Don't read this if you find that kind of thing triggering, please.

_New York City, United States of America_

_  
_ _Thursday, July 5th, 1951_

* * *

 

####  _01:42 EST_

The feeling of concrete on his knees was all he could concentrate on. If he let his mind stray even for a moment, he knew he would float away and never come back down to earth. It was important to feel the solid earth beneath him, so Arthur focused on the cold stone on his bare legs and not on the wind blowing through his white tee, or the fingers laced through his hair, or the cock pumping in and out of his mouth. He wasn’t quite sure why those things were there, but for some reason all of them were quite important and he couldn’t just relax and float away like he desperately wanted to.

His intense focus on the earth made it difficult to hear the sirens as more than a distant buzz. The feeling of the cock being pulled out of his mouth and something sticky covering his face was a little closer, and when the hands fell out of his hair and he had nothing holding him upright anymore was nearly as important as the ground under his knees. The cool concrete felt nice against his head, although the sticky feeling on his cheek had started to feel warmer, making him dizzier, until the flashing lights and distant screams were replaced with a dark silence.

* * *

####  _06:37 EST_

The holding cell had been more comfortable than the alley, from what Arthur could remember of it. He had tried to sit on the wooden slab they called a bench, but he kept sliding off and bashing his head, so he decided to stay on the ground. Closing his eyes meant that the lights and floating came back, so his eyes remained open, glued to the shoes that squeaked against the tile on the other side of the bars. The sticky sensation had eventually vanished, although the feeling of it drying on the side of his face had been equally as disconcerting. He wasn’t quite positive how long he stayed there; long enough for them to figure out who he was, since his passport and papers had been next to him earlier, in the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and a British citizen with ties to the government in a holding cell in the middle of New York City was a dangerous thing for the press to find out, and he was supposed to get on a boat later that day and go back to London, and he was worried that his ticket had been lost when they had taken his jacket, and if the scent of the drugs he had been carrying around earlier stuck to his clothing, then he would never hear the end of it from Albert or Elizabeth, and maybe he could get some tea from the nice lady who had helped him check into his hotel room earlier-

The slamming of brakes brought Arthur back to reality, the sudden stop of the car jolting him forward. He managed not to hit his head on the dashboard, but the impact on the headrest made his head pain spike for just a moment. His arms were too fuzzy to be lifted, so instead of checking for new injuries Arthur simply looked over to his left, watching Alfred drive in stony silence.

The American hadn’t been pleased when he had shown up an hour earlier. Arthur had known it was him by the high top trainers with dirty soles and knots at the end of the laces. Sighting them had originally been exciting, but when the strong arms had hauled him to his feet and began to walk him out towards the car, England had begun to get the sense that Alfred wasn’t as eager to see him as he was. Not a single word had been exchanged yet, but even with his pounding headache and bleary vision the Brit knew that slamming car doors shut until they dented and turning corners dangerously fast were not the best signs.

The dark sky had turned to something of a grey over the past few minutes, the first signs of the sun breaking through the clouds triggering something in the pit of Arthur’s stomach. He glanced back at America, words struggling to form properly in his mind, a phrase at the tip of his tongue. Finally he managed to mumble, “Lark’s at your gate, Alfie.”

Those beautiful blue eyes finally looked over at him, not filled with anger for once, but with confusion. Arthur watched as his soft, pink lips moved, imagining for a moment what they would feel like against his own, or his neck, or maybe his chest if he was lucky enough to - Oh. He was saying something.

“What’d you say?” Arthur interrupted, his voice sounding odd even to him.

 “What did you take last night?” Alfred asked again, seeming irritated that he had to repeat himself. “You normally don’t make sense, but this is just strange.”

Arthur nodded once and instantly regretted it. The pain doubled, his vision blurring and then going white for just a moment. He didn't say anything, a soft whimper from the back of his throat the only noise he could manage at the moment.

“You know what, nevermind.” The American drove in silence again, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. Arthur stared at them intently, wanting to see how they felt against his own hands, if they would be soft or calloused, or how nice they would feel brushing against his skin. It was easy to get lost in the sway of the car, the gradual sunrise, the way that Alfred would take a breath every time the traffic light turned green, as if he was excited that it was his turn to go, like the child he still was, and soon enough Arthur let his head loll to the side, resting against Alfred’s arm, falling asleep peacefully for the first time in years.

* * *

####  _09:20 EST_

“-don’t know what to do. It’s already midday over there, and he won’t answer his phone.”

The ringing sound was nagging at the back of his mind, a bothersome nuisance that he really didn’t want to wake up to. His eyelids were glued shut, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get them to open.

“I know lunch is important to him, but so is a call from the goddamn United States of America.”

There was sensation in his limbs now, the fuzzy heaviness replaced with soreness and intense pins and needles. He wanted to lift them, to see if he could rub the gunk away enough to open his eyes, but even the thought of moving them made his muscles scream in pain.

“I _can’t_ , Mattie. Yo-No, listen. You know that I can’t talk too much to him now, let alone be seen picking him up from a fucking prison. Hoover’s already on edge with me, and the only thing keeping him from kicking me out is Eisenhower so-“

His shirt had been changed. His torn undershirt was gone, replaced with some sort of tee with a scratchy collar. The idea of Alfred changing him brought the feeling back to the pit of his stomach, though he wasn’t sure why.

“They found him in a pool of his own blood with some other guy’s spunk on his face. I don’t know how they usually figure out if it’s sodomy, but it seems clear as day what he was doing.”

Whatever he was lying on was a lot more comfortable than the concrete or tile. Something soft propped his head up, another covered his body, coming just short so his feet stuck out. Even with socks, the air felt cold. It must be cold, why else was he shivering?

 “I just need you to come and get him. I’ll pay for the ride down if you taxi, or if you drive yourself I’ll take care of the gas.”

It was tempting to let Alfred’s voice lull him back into a sleep. The words didn’t matter, just the way they seemed to wash over him, bathing him in a sense of security he hadn’t felt in a while. Alfred could always calm him, even in the middle of the French countryside with bullets raining down on them, and bombs hitting him back in London, lighting his city on fire and killing all of his children, but it was okay because Alfred was there, cupping a cheek in his dirty, calloused hand, soft words taking him to a better place until the shaking stopped. Why couldn’t he stop shaking now?

“By himself? He can’t even sit up right, I had to strap him into his chair so he wouldn’t fall onto the floor. He can’t leave the country yet either, they’re keeping his passport for security reasons for another couple of weeks.”

 Having his passport taken wasn’t ideal. He needed to go back soon, he had only told Mrs. Lovett to let herself in for a week to water his plants, and if his windows were still open upstairs his attic would flood again. He had too many letters up there to lose to water, too many memories hoarded together. Perhaps he could ask Lizzie to stop in, she always seemed to love visiting his Westminster apartment when she could sneak away.

“No-No, listen, I know. I’m asking a lot recently and I don’t feel like the greatest guy, okay, but what else can I do?”

He wasn’t sure why he was crying. He shouldn’t be, hearing Alfred’s voice should mean that he’s safe. His tears did help his eyes open, the stinging heat blurring his vision of the room. Alfred had laid him on a sofa, using a matching throw blanket to cover him up. It took him a moment to recognize the room, but the unnecessarily tall ceiling and windows clued him in on where he was. He tried sitting up, pushing against the sofa cushions with his trembling arms. The knot in his stomach twisted, forcing his frail body to shake like a leaf until he was bent over, gagging and retching onto the floor beneath him.

“I have to host Ivan today, and he can’t be laying around when he gets here, you know what they say about commies and fa-Shit shit, stay on the line-Arthur?” The sound of a phone clattering against a table and the panicked footsteps were secondary to the sound of rain hitting the glass pain. It was so _cold_ in the room, and yet he was sweating, emptying the contents of his stomach onto the patterned red carpet below. The ringing in his head grew louder, until all he could hear was the pounding of the rain against the building and all he saw was the god awful carpet that he had just ruined, and then the same strong arms that had carried him out of Normandy were around his shoulders, pulling up the blanket and wrapping him tight.

The tears didn’t stop, not even when there was nothing left for him to vomit, not when he was picked up and carried away from the sofa, not when he buried his head into Alfred’s chest, where the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cola enveloped his senses, and all he wanted to do in that moment was die so his last memory was of his Alfred holding him, caring for him, silently promising that everything would be okay with his fucking _amazing_ arms that cradled him close.

“I need more,” Arthur heard himself saying distantly, as if he was in another room. “I need more, I need to be fixed, let me fix myself, I need more please, Alfred let me find more-”

 “Hey, hey,” Alfred hushed him, sitting down at the edge of the tub. Arthur felt himself being lowered into the porcelain, whining as his blanket and his Alfred were taken away from him.

“It’s gonna be cold,” was his only warning before the water hit him, causing him to thrash and writhe on the hard, unforgiving floor. His pleading was reduced to nothing more than sounds from the back of his throat, the tears doubling as the shower stream was redirected to his face. Too many memories were associated with the rain, too many stolen kisses, choppy oceans, and slow burning deaths surfaced, consuming Arthur until he thought he could cry no longer.

A towel replaced his sodden clothing, large and soft, too gentle on his skin. He whined again, shivering as he was picked up again, this time carried into another, darker room. He clung to Alfred, not caring that he was naked, not caring that he was getting the other wet. “Don’t leave me again,” he whimpered, remembering the gunshot that had nicked him in the back, so forceful that the bullet had exited through his chest. He remembered the rain then, and how Alfred was there, pulling him out of the crashing darkness, promising to always stay by his side. 

Arthur was so caught up in his memories he didn’t notice the doorbell ring, nor how Alfred practically dropped him on the floor, nor the shoes surrounding him and the jackets above him. He did notice when the closet door shut, and how his tears silently slipped down his cheeks, and how, despite Alfred’s promises, utterly alone he felt in that moment.


End file.
